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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24798979">In the Sea</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatalCookies/pseuds/FatalCookies'>FatalCookies</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Wish to Drown [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:48:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,986</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24798979</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatalCookies/pseuds/FatalCookies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master requests a view.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ninth Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Wish to Drown [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1776361</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>In the Sea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/space_boye/gifts">space_boye</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The Master is bound to the TARDIS.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That is the exchange, though the terms were never discussed, and the Master had shockingly little say in the matter. He was, after all, a little busy being torn apart by the Eye of Harmony—stretched thin, time grinding in his head as it strung out, relativity grating upon him like a sandstorm upon tissue paper. He remembers. Eternity is nothing to a Time Lord until faced with it—the elongating moments, the screaming halt, the horror of division as you plod through exponentially minute halfway points.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had no say in the Doctor’s decisions. Not in the make of the body, not in the functions it had, not in the equations written, not in the frame that holds his mind nor the equations written to pinpoint the event horizon, and consequently siphon him out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s all that could be contrived, the Doctor once explained. A siphon. Extraction in total stood the risk of tearing the thinned mind, and pulling it up in shreds. With a siphon, the pull is not so severe. The systems in place ensure an intact mind—but depend, then, upon the TARDIS’ own sphere of influence, her own energy patterns, her own link to the Eye of Harmony itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Master is a prisoner in this old box. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that’s the brunt of it, really, the fact that makes the Doctor shy away and dance around other topics; the one that makes him wince, and flinch, when the Master brings it up; the </span>
  <em>
    <span>truth</span>
  </em>
  <span> which made the Doctor bow his head when the Master asked, at first, coldly, if the Doctor were </span>
  <em>
    <span>lying </span>
  </em>
  <span>to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(He stuck his hand out, once, into the cold and the void, when the Doctor was preoccupied and the TARDIS was feeling more obliging than usual. He felt the connection go cold, felt his fingertips go numb. He’s hated the Doctor for lying, before. In that instant, he is struck with the sudden reminder that he could hate him, as well, for the truth.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” The Master asked him once, taking in the stark black-and-white interior of the old, weathered box. "I am... trapped here, in essence."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” the Doctor replied—then, hesitated. “Maybe,” the Doctor admitted. The Master had looked him square in the eye, and he remembers how pale blue the Doctor’s eyes were. Like the whitened husks of dead flies, hanging in a spider’s web. “Maybe,” the Doctor admitted, his voice nearly breaking, “but I hope not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not much for a consolation. It certainly wasn’t, then. The Master recalls his response was rather… firm, and unfavorable. He’d left the room while the Doctor called after him, letting his ears fill with the click of his heels against the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Master </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>a prisoner within this ancient, half-broken box.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whether they like it or not, that is the price that he—and he alone—pays for an end to agonizing eternity. Out of one cell, and into the next. So, they might say, it goes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Apologies need not necessarily garner forgiveness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(To the Doctor’s credit, the Master’s imprisonment in the TARDIS is not exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>choice, either. And while the Master found himself slow to believe </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>particular detail, it only takes time and observation to see that the whole awful mess really is agonizing for them both. He, himself, is livid, and hardly talking to the man, which is quite the turn of events for all he’s endeavored to attract the fool’s slightest whim of attention. And the Doctor…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. Guilt sits differently in this Incarnation. Heavily, with desperation, where flippancy is less an avoidance and more a coping mechanism. Guilt carves itself into the dark circles beneath the Doctor’s eyes, claws at his cheeks and draws them increasingly gaunt, pulls at his skin and stretches it taut over the bones of his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s only for a brief time that the vindication makes it worth watching. The Doctor’s misery, in the end, is rarely worth prolonging.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In time, the Master eases the force of his attack. He saves the reminders of the Doctor’s guilt for special occasions when the jab is truly needed—when the Doctor grows arrogant, when he postures, when he gets </span>
  <em>
    <span>snippy </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the Master need remind him that he’s not the only one on this ship with less-than-scrupulous morality at play.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The reminder triggers such a remarkable change in the Doctor’s disposition, that even the easing of his sharp words begins to fade into fewer and fewer instances.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tells himself it’s practically cheating. Oh, of course, sometimes it triggers an honest-to-goodness argument between them, but more often than not, the result is a sudden and pained silence, perhaps a token apology, and always, always, avoidance and very visible suffering. A single reminder, sometimes only a word needed—and </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>is his boon. This, it seems, is the result reaped from rubbing the proverbial salt in the wound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Doctor, it should be noted, never brings it up. He did once, in the heat of an argument, an accusation which twisted into </span>
  <em>
    <span>well, bully for me, then, that I couldn’t even get you out of here if I </span>
  </em>
  <span>did </span>
  <em>
    <span>want to</span>
  </em>
  <span>!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Master didn’t speak with him for a week and the Doctor, in the same amount of time, nervously bit his lip into scabs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. No—come to that, it really isn’t worth it, is it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Too easy, he tells himself. Too easy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What a marvelous liar he is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(It isn’t, exactly, that the Master forgives him. He just… starts making tea, one odd day. He passes it on to the Doctor, who hesitates, then mentions that he thinks he can make some adjustments. Make it so that the Master, too, can partake. The Master makes some mild comment regarding the Doctor being remarkably obliging. The Doctor starts to look guilty, again. He makes soft promises about wires, and synthetics, and things he can do. Surprisingly, he follows through. He offers; the Master accepts; the Doctor does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Master slips no poison into his tea, no combustibles under the console, no sharp edges along the Doctor’s throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he knows it, the mutual acquiescence and instants of peculiar generosity become… commonplace. Routine. They each choose kindness, these days—acutely aware of the fact each time, at least for his part… but easier, he finds, to do, each time he chooses it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s funny, what soft things can come out of simple repetition.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They are sitting in the parlour with two cups of tea while the Victrola plays. The Master has been a prisoner of the TARDIS for nearly a year, and the knowledge no longer smarts like it once did. He plucks his own cup from the saucer and sips. A little at a time, and he can manage. The Doctor has promised to improve the functioning-if-faulty design he most recently put in place, but the Master assured him it could wait a while, to be done properly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is, anyway, a certain luxury in a sip. Leisurely. As though one had all the time in the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is almost as though they have all the time in the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I notice,” the Master dryly observes, “you’ve yet to take on a new companion. Some human, or Alzarian, or Trakkenite, or—what-have you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” the Doctor says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Master regards him with a sidelong glance, and takes another cautious sip before placing the china back upon the table. He does not lean back, or even settle in to the point that he might be accused of lounging. He tilts his head with careful precision, and narrows his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You cannot continue to be frightened of landing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ha—I can do whatever I like, really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your TARDIS, your rules?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something like that,” the Doctor agrees. He tries to sound chipper. Lesser minds might be fooled by the performance. In his defense, the Master is not the only fine liar on this ship, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s just that they’ve known each other long enough to be able to tell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, good riddance,” the Master says with haughty decorum. “The worlds out there will go on without you, and your companions in the past have only ever caused you problems. Even when they were upsetting my plans, or acting out of place… Oh, I suppose they brought you the briefest little instants of joy, but really, there’s always someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>to save, some desperate soul in need of a jaunt. You run the risk of drowning in it all, it seems to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s possible,” the Doctor murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Master blinks, and reconsiders. Oh, he’s known for a long while how deeply this Doctor holds guilt in him, and how tightly he clutches on to misery. And here, the Master has given him perfect grounds for an argument, and yet…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Master regards the Doctor for a long, pensive moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be a dear,” he drawls, “and turn down the opacities, will you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The opacities, Doctor.” He meets the Doctor’s gaze and is struck again by the paleness of it, by how watery the blue, and how washed-out it looks around his sunken, and oft-circled eyes. The Master lifts his brow and the Doctor shakes his head subtly, incredulously. “The ceiling,” the Master drawls. “I’m well aware that even the type-40s had the capacity to—oh—open the skylight, as it were. You’re not going to land? So be it. Then let’s observe the universe, you and I—and keep our noses out of ruling it, or saving it.” He resists a smirk, but only just. He gives it a moment, then adds, “For the time being, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause goes between them, as the Doctor regards him with narrowed eyes and the Master questions him with the slightest pursing of his lips. Finally, the Doctor heaves a sigh, and with a murmur of “Blasted man…” removes his sonic screwdriver from the recesses of his pocket, aims it at the space above their heads, and flicks a switch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room darkens as the void of space opens up around them, and submerges them into a sea of stars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a long few moments, the Master watches the Doctor. The Doctor, he suspects, had been keen on watching </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>in this moment, on making very certain that the Master wasn’t planning anything too terribly devious. But, true to form, when faced with the universe… The Doctor’s eyes are drawn to the ceiling and they stay there, watching. The Master observes as some of the tension drains away, and something wistful like hope parts the Doctor’s lips on a sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>terribly devious. But he wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t know the Doctor well enough for this, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Master, too, turns his face to the starry blackness above. Of any prison to be stuck in, he muses, one with a view is… not the worst fate imaginable. One with the Doctor is nearly a kind hand dealt, and Fate, he knows, is sparing with the favorable details She might dole out. The words </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank you </span>
  </em>
  <span>tickle his nose, like the start of a sneeze, or a sneaking suspicion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, just like that, he knows the actual </span>
  <em>
    <span>right </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Under the gaze of the turning universe, the Master turns his head, and tells the Doctor with as much murmuring kindness as he can contrive, “I forgive you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The TARDIS hums, and the Doctor’s breath hitches with a hint of incredulity, and a first sob. His hand haltingly crosses the chasm between them. The Master, not usually so kind, remembers Fate, and reaches across the space in kind. He gives the Doctor his hand, and the Doctor, in kind return, laces their fingers together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Underneath the sea of stars and sky above, they fold, and prepare for Fate to deal the proverbial next round.</span>
</p>
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